Death on the Cliff Walk (The Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  “Strong,” Eliot agreed. “Vandenberg’s making her run, too.”

  Brooke glanced out toward the court, where Miles Vandenberg and Iris Gardner were playing a particularly fierce game of tennis. Hampered though she was by long skirts and petticoats, Iris was hunched over, her face a study in concentration, her hair coming loose, as she awaited the next shot. Miles, by contrast, seemed to hit the ball with no particular effort, yet it traveled fast and went exactly where he wanted it, almost as if he were toying with Iris. “Iris doesn’t know any other way to play. She’s competitive.”

  “Not a trait I admire in a woman,” Eliot said.

  Brooke looked back at him. “I know. You admire a woman’s fortune.”

  Eliot’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as he gazed at her over the rim of his glass, before his lids dropped into their habitual half-closed position. It gave him a sleepy look, but Brooke had known him long enough to know he was never less than alert. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous,” he said mildly, draining the last of his gin and tonic and signaling to the waiter for another. “It’s not like you to say something like that, Brooke.”

  Brooke sighed, looking out onto the court again. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m not in the best of moods, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “What’s wrong?” When she didn’t answer, he pressed on. “I noticed you weren’t quite yourself at your aunt’s party.”

  Brooke gave a low, mirthless laugh. “I’d identified Rosalind’s body that morning.”

  “Oh.” He nodded at the waiter who set a full drink down before him. “Well, it was a bad experience, Brooke, but it’s over.”

  “It’s not over, Eliot. Not with whoever did it still out there.” And not with the image of her mind that wouldn’t fade, of Rosalind lying broken and still on the Cliff Walk. Matt would understand.

  Eliot shrugged. “They were only maids.”

  “They were people,” Brooke said, keeping her voice level with an effort. “Kathleen Shannon, Maureen Quick, Mary Manning—they were all people. So was Rosalind. And if you tell me again that she shouldn’t have gone out alone in a maid’s uniform, I will get up and walk out of here.”

  “Brooke, Brooke.” He leaned toward her, smiling. “Why are you so distressed over this? It doesn’t concern us. Let the police deal with it,” he said, draining his glass again and signaling for another drink. His third, she noted, and it wasn’t yet noon.

  Brooke shifted in her chair. In spite of the tranquillity here at the Casino, she felt anything but calm. The outside world and its problems weren’t going to go away, she realized with a sinking heart. “Eliot, I don’t know if-”

  “Brooke.” Eliot placed his hands on hers. “This doesn’t concern us. We have more important things to discuss.”

  Brooke tried to pull her hands back, aware that they were the object of more than one veiled glance, but Eliot’s grip stayed firm. She liked Eliot. He was the perfect bachelor escort, always available, always polite. He could be charming, with a delightful sense of the absurd. Best of all, he viewed society much as she did, with bemused detachment. Whether she would marry him was another story, though everyone seemed to expect it. Up until recently, so had she. “Eliot, please. People are staring at us and they’ll talk.”

  “Let them.” His voice was low, intense, making her look at him in surprise. This was a different Eliot from the man she knew. “Brooke, we haven’t had a chance to talk lately.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “About us, Brooke. About our future. You know how I feel about-”

  “Excuse me,” someone said above them in a dry voice, and Brooke looked up to see Matt.

  “Matt!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, her emotions jumbled. Relief at the timeliness of the interruption warred with embarrassment, and an odd joy. “What are you doing here?”

  “Brooke?” Eliot uncoiled his long legs from the stool and rose, slouching back against the low wooden railing of the piazza, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white flannel trousers as he leisurely studied Matt. “Who is this?”

  Brooke winced at the disdain in Eliot’s voice. Matt looked out of place here, his celluloid collar and dark, square-cut sack suit, obviously off the peg, contrasting unfavorably with Eliot’s impeccably tailored black and white striped coat. There was something about him that set him off, though, an air of vitality, of purpose that contrasted sharply with Eliot’s affected languor. “Hello, Matt,” she said, collecting herself. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “Brooke.” He nodded at her. There was something in his eyes she couldn’t analyze as he glanced from her to Eliot. “Mr. Payson, I presume?”

  “Yes.” Brooke hastened to make the introductions. “Detective Devlin is with the Newport police,” she added.

  “Oh?” Eliot jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, and there was a look of such foolish amiability on his face that Brooke was immediately suspicious. “I was wondering when the police were going to get to me.”

  Brooke looked at him sharply. “Why?”

  “They’re questioning everybody connected with Rosalind, aren’t they?” he said mildly. “I assume you do want to question me, detective? Or did you come to see the tennis?”

  Matt glanced out at the court, where Miles and Iris were just finishing their game. “I prefer baseball,” he said, pleasantly enough. “And yes, Mr. Payson. I would like to talk to you.”

  “Ask away, then.” Eliot sat down, lounging back in his chair. “I’ve got all morning.”

  Matt gazed at the other man steadily, and, try though she might, Brooke could get no hint of what he was thinking. “Is there someplace quieter where we could-”

  “I still say you should try playing with your other hand, Miles,” a woman’s voice said. “Whew!” Iris dropped inelegantly onto the stool next to Brooke. “Hot one, isn’t it? But a good game, I thought. Backhand’s not as strong as I’d like, but then, Miles is the devil to play against.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Miles smiled as he sat across from Iris and signaled to a waiter. “You look nice and cool, Brooke.”

  “Thank you.” Brooke was aware of Iris fidgeting beside her. Iris had her good points, but no one would ever accuse her of being dainty or cool. Strands of hair had come loose from the knot at the top of her head and were plastered to her face, while her straw boater, trimmed with blue flowers to match her full-skirted tennis ensemble, was definitely askew. Brooke suspected that Iris had left off her corset, so that she could move more freely, and briefly envied her, in spite of her dishevelment. Her own flared skirt and sailor-style jacket covered layers of constricting underclothes, and she had to resist the urge to pull at the high collar of her white shirtwaist. Hearty was the only word to describe Iris, though Brooke knew that under her gruff exterior lay a sensitive, and sometimes bewildered, heart. “I thought you both played well.”

  “Thank you.” Miles held his glass up in a salute. Unlike Iris, he hardly looked as if he had just played a difficult match; his striped flannel jacket was unwrinkled, and he sat at ease, somehow managing to look his usual cool, urbane self. “Cheers. Did we interrupt something? I don’t believe I know you,” he said, smiling pleasantly at Matt. “Are you an acquaintance of Payson?”

  “No.” Matt shook his head. “Detective Devlin, of the Newport police.”

  “Oh. Miles Vandenberg.” Miles held out his hand. “Is Payson in trouble for something?”

  “Should he be?”

  Miles smiled again. “No, no, just a little joke.”

  “Detective Devlin is here about the Cliff Walk killings,” Eliot put in, an odd little smile on his face.

  “Good.” Miles sat down again. “About time something was done about that. Glad to see you’re on the job, Devlin.” He indicated a stool. “Care to join us, tell us what’s going on?”

  “Actually, Detective Devlin wants to question me,” Eliot said.

  “You?” Miles lo
oked at him. “Ah, I see. The fight you had with Rosalind.”

  “Miles,” Brooke protested.

  “It’s better discussed in private,” Matt said, his face still impassive. “Mr. Payson, if we might go someplace else?”

  “I suppose so.” Eliot rose languidly to his feet. “Brooke, I’m sorry to leave you like this.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Miles said. “I’ll see her home.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. “Thank you, old man,” Eliot said finally, and turned. “Come, Mr. Devlin. We should be able to find a private room empty at this time of day and talk in peace.”

  Matt nodded. “Fine. Ladies, Mr. Vandenberg.” He touched the brim of his hat, and turned. Brooke thought his eyes stayed on her for a moment before he left, but, again, she couldn’t read the expression in them. She shivered. It felt as if a cloud had come over the sun, and yet the day was as bright as ever. The darkness was inside her. Reality had invaded her peaceful, normal day.

  “Remind me never to cross you, Miles,” Iris said in her gruff voice.

  Miles smiled, leaning back and talking a sip of his drink. “Why, because I mentioned the argument? Common knowledge, my dear.”

  “Among us. Newport doesn’t know of it.”

  Brooke emerged from the darkness, to find that the sun was still shining and that life went on about her. Iris was leaning forward, frowning, while Miles sat back, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, as if the discussion meant little to him. Iris was right. There had been no reason for him to mention the argument Eliot had had with Rosalind when she had broken their engagement. How well did she really know Miles? How well did she know any of the people she thought were friends? “I think Miles is right,” Brooke said slowly. “The police would have found out about it.”

  “But not from us,” Iris argued. “In any event, what does it have to do with anything?”

  Brooke looked away. “Nothing, probably.” Nothing, unless Matt suspected Eliot. The thought made her shiver. It was all very well thinking that someone she knew might be guilty; it was another matter altogether to put a name to that person. Surely not Eliot.

  “I heard the police talked to Paul Radley the other day,” Miles drawled.

  “Paul was in New York last Friday. He couldn’t be involved,” Iris said, her face getting red.

  “No? He was engaged to Rosalind.” An uncomfortable silence fell. True, they had been engaged. Before that, however, Paul Radley had been Iris’s beau.

  “Always pitied him that,” Iris said, and the tension eased. Brooke couldn’t help but admire the other girl. When Rosalind had captured Paul, she had done it in the most public, and insulting, way possible. Their unexpected engagement had been announced at a ball at Iris’s house last winter. Nothing had been settled between Iris and Paul, but there’d been an understanding between them, until Rosalind had stepped in. Brooke wouldn’t blame Iris for hating her. In fact-

  Without meaning to, she focused on Iris’s hands. They were long and broad and capable, strong enough for any game she might want to undertake. Strong enough to strangle a smaller girl? Brooke hastily looked up to see Iris staring at her. In spite of the warmth of the day, she shivered.

  “Paul didn’t have anything to do with it,” Iris declared, looking away, and Brooke’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Doesn’t have it in him. Had to be some kind of madman. Horrible thing, what’s happening,” she went on. “Don’t care if it is only maids getting killed. I don’t go out on the Cliff Walk alone myself, anymore.” She shrugged. “Horrible, but there it is.”

  Miles shrugged. “Who know what someone is capable of?” he asked. “Not that I’m suggesting Paul did anything. In fact,” his smile turned devilish, “now that Rosalind’s gone-”

  “Wouldn’t have Paul Radley on a silver platter,” Iris announced, and rose. “Excuse me. See my mother over there. I’ll go home with her.”

  The silence was thick in the wake of her departure. “Well,” Miles said, his voice cheerful. “I think I’ve just been snubbed.”

  “You deserved it,” Brooke said severely. “You said some nasty things.”

  “True.” He nodded. “But Iris is so easy to bait. Of course Radley had nothing to do with it.”

  Brooke shrugged and set down her empty lemonade glass. Who knew the identity of the murderer? It could be anyone with enough strength. Why, even Miles—but everyone knew about the injury he had suffered in childhood, and the weakness it had left in his hand. “I think I should-”

  “When are you and Payson setting the date?”

  Brooke looked at him in surprise. He was smiling at her, turning his glass around and around, the condensation leaving little circles on the table. “We haven’t decided. I must go,” she said, rising, pulling on her gloves and checking that her boater hat was on straight. “Aunt Winifred is expecting me home to go visiting with her.”

  Miles rose and took her arm. “I’ll see you home.”

  “That’s not necessary, Miles.”

  “It will be my privilege.” He smiled. “What do you think people will say if you go home alone?”

  “As if I care about that.” Nodding at acquaintances, Brooke allowed Miles to escort her through the Casino and down the broad staircase, with its elaborately turned balustrade.

  “You should,” Miles said, as they emerged from the covered entrance onto Bellevue Avenue, shaded by striped awnings. The street was as crowded as usual, with summer people stopping into the exclusive New York or Paris shops that had their branches here, or going upstairs to the piazza; with ordinary people going about their business; with equipages of all kinds, from fine landaus to heavy drays, to the large horse-drawn drags which brought excursionists from out of town on tours of the city. “Have a care for your reputation, Brooke. Look who’s here,” he added, jerking his chin.

  Brooke glanced across the street, where an inoffensive-looking young man in a gray suit watched them. She recognized him, of course; he was Robert Rowe, spy for the scandal sheet Town Topics. Doubtless the fact that she was with Miles would find its way into the next edition. It was also a foolish thing to worry about. “I am a Low,” Brooke said, as if that excused everything, and Miles laughed.

  “That sounded like something your aunt would say.”

  Brooke smiled. “Heaven forbid! But doesn’t this all strike you as rather foolish, Miles?” She gestured with her free hand toward the people around them. “I’ve lived here all my life, did what I wanted to do, and no one ever said a word. Now I can barely move for fear someone will talk about it.”

  “Your life has changed, Brooke.”

  “So it has,” she said ruefully, as they strolled along the elm-shaded street. Away from the Casino, past the old Ocean House hotel, the traffic was lessening. “I was Big Mike Cassidy’s daughter. Sometimes I forget that.”

  Miles gave her a startled look. “So that is why you are as you are.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I sometimes think, Brooke, that you are the smartest woman in Newport.”

  She glanced up in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

  “Society doesn’t fool you, does it?”

  “No. But then,” she said thoughtfully, “I suspect it doesn’t fool you, either.”

  “I see it differently. Living in Newport year ‘round, I have a different life.”

  “How is your wife?”

  “The same.” The muscles of his arm under Brooke’s fingers tightened. “There’s a doctor in Germany I’ve heard of who might be able to treat her, but she won’t leave Newport.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said, after a moment. Miles’s voice was bitter, and no wonder, she thought. Though he came from an old New York family, he was tied to Newport, and his mansion out on the point, by an invalid wife. Not for him the life the rest of the cottagers led, of autumn in New York and springs spent abroad. Brooke sometimes suspected he resented the loss of his freedom.

  Miles shrugged. “It’s the way
things are. Now, tell me.” His voice became brisk. “Are you and Payson setting the date?”

  She looked up at him again. “Why does that matter to you?”

  “I’m curious, like everyone else. Of course, you wouldn’t want to be tied to someone the police suspect of murder.”

  Brooke pulled her arm free. “I am not as easy to bait as Iris,” she said, annoyed. “If you’re going to continue being disagreeable, Miles, I’ll go home on my own.”

  “No, no. Forgive me.” Miles took her arm again. “Still, you must admit it was remarkable for the police to come to the Casino for him.”

  Why had Matt come to the Casino, Brooke wondered? Surely he could have met Eliot someplace else, someplace less public. Or was that the idea? “Eliot didn’t do anything. At least-”

  “What?” he prompted, when she didn’t go on.

  “No. He didn’t do anything. I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you.” He peered down at her. “You’re concerned, aren’t you? I was teasing just now, you know. I doubt Payson is involved in this.”

  “Yes. But,” she said, taking a deep breath, “what if it is—one of us?”

  “The Cliff Walk Killer? What a ridiculous idea.”

  “It could be,” she argued. There. She’d said it aloud, the suspicion that had nagged at her all weekend. “The killings didn’t start until we were here for the summer.”

  “Not enough victims,” Miles said promptly. “The man obviously goes after maids. There aren’t many on the Cliff Walk in winter.”

  “Rosalind wasn’t a maid.”

  “True, though she was dressed as one. I wonder why that was.” He glanced at her as they turned onto a quiet, shaded side street, the blue water of the bay far ahead glistening in the sun. “Has your policeman friend said anything?”

  “He’s not—no. But I was wondering—Miles, do you think she was meeting someone?”